


A Difference in Technique

by SkipandDi (ladyflowdi)



Series: Moments from the Infiltrate Universe [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Fingerfucking, Flip-Flop, Love, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 05:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4733960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyflowdi/pseuds/SkipandDi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John hates it, he <i>hates</i> it when Sherlock gets it in his head to make a to-do about the difference in size between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Difference in Technique

**Author's Note:**

> Pure, unadulterated porn, because why not. These guys are hilarious.

John hates it, he _hates_ it when Sherlock gets it in his head to make a to-do about the difference in size between them. 

He's fascinated by something John has been fighting against his entire life -- marvels over the length of his fingers, sweeps his palms, abnormally large, down John's thighs to touch his toes, the sole of his foot. Sometimes, he nudges John over onto his belly and presses him into the blankets, covering every inch of him until John feels like he's suffocating, only it doesn't feel like suffocating at all. Those are his favorite times, especially when Sherlock nudges the cheeks of his arse apart and for a while simply rocks against him without any intention of penetration, as if afraid that the simple act will break John apart. It makes John shudder and whimper every time, to be held so carefully, to be touched so tenderly, even as Sherlock's cock stroking there against the sensitive clutch of his hole makes him moan like a man dying.

Then there are other times.

"No," he chokes out, because Sherlock's got his hand down the back of his trousers and everything is very slick and John doesn't think he's going to be able to hang on for one more moment. "No, no, _Sherlock_."

"Yes," Sherlock whispers into his ear, and he's amused, smug bastard, pressing John against the wall with that gigantic giraffian body of his. "Oh yes. I can easily hold you."

"I don't care!"

"Don't you want to know what it feels like?"

Sherlock's teeth catch on his earlobe and John's cock makes a valiant effort to jump right out of his trousers. He shudders, head falling back on its own accord. "No."

"I think you're a liar." Sherlock shoves John's trousers down and John averts his eyes, face burning, because for the first time in his life he hadn't put on pants that morning. Sherlock had laughed softly in his ear when he'd discovered it, and even now his lips are curled with amusement, pressed there against his neck. "I love you like this. Desperate for me."

"I'm not," John argues, pushes at Sherlock's shoulder to make his point. "We're not doing this against the bloody wall, Sherlock."

"I think we are," Sherlock almost bloody _sing-songs_ , curling his fingers in John's arse just right and making John see stars. He moans loud and gasping, grasps handfuls of Sherlock's shirt until the feeling subsides. Sherlock's added a finger, _three_ , and he can't do this, he _isn't going to do this_ , there's the chip shop and Mrs. Hudson and John is very, very loud sometimes. "You're perfectly proportioned for this -- can't believe I didn't think of it earlier. You're nine stone soaking wet, small enough to fit perfectly." 

And then, without any warning, Sherlock pulls his fingers out and with one fluid push hoists John up the wall, arms firmly locked under John's knees, to prove his point. 

John scrabbles at Sherlock's shoulders, wraps both arms around his neck as tightly as he can as the world heaves very, very far away. "No, we musn't, my God you've no sense of p-propriety at all," and Sherlock is laughing even as he pushes in, in, in.

And John lets Sherlock, because this is not a surprise -- not when Sherlock has been eyeing him the entire day, through the stupid robbery with the cats, through the mindless debriefing with Lestrade, through the interminable taxi-ride home in hideous London traffic. Sherlock's been watching John speculatively since this morning, since he caught John in the bathroom, pulling his trousers over his bare arse, still lily white despite the perma-tan he has everywhere else.

John acquiesces, his legs around Sherlock's waist while his hands scrabble desperately for purchase on the wall behind his head. Then it's more than acquiescence, he gives it freely, willingly, shoving down as Sherlock thrusts up, in, pushes them against the wall again and again and again. There's always an edge that scrapes along Sherlock's mind when he gets like this, and John must know, Sherlock's playfulness at these times is only ever skin deep. But John never gained back the weight he lost after Moriarty, and his left arm is still slightly less coordinated than his right, and he'll always have a slight limp. Sherlock can't help that he sees this all and feels it all and only wants to enfold John into himself until he stops being so easily breakable, right now, _especially_ now, when with his every touch he can watch John fall utterly apart. 

Sherlock thrusts up and _stays_ , using John's own weight to grind in as deeply as he can. John shudders, shoulders banging against the wall, then falls forward into Sherlock's body, fisting his fingers in all those curls and burying his cry against Sherlock's temple. He squeezes his thighs as tightly as he can around Sherlock's waist, though he isn't scared of Sherlock letting him fall, not really. He'd hurt himself first before he let hurt come to John, and the thought makes him shake and tremble and squeeze round Sherlock's cock to get him going again. "Come on, come on," he pants, "finish, don't stop now."

"How loudly do you think I can get you to scream?" Sherlock asks, offhand, barely out of breath the _bastard_ , in the same tone of voice he used when wondering over an experiment. The thought is bloody terrifying, not with Mrs. Hudson just downstairs, and the _shop..._

"If you make me scream, I'll never forgive you," John says, lies, blatant _lies_ , breathless -- he tightens again around Sherlock's cock when the pressure gets to be too much. "Fuck me, come _on._ "

Sherlock loves the challenge John presents, John who tells him to stop then tells him to continue, to fuck him harder, to make him scream. There's no sign of weakness in him now, even as his eyes slide shut, as his hot breath pants across Sherlock's temple and into his hair. He's finally feeling John's weight in his lower back but that somehow makes it all _better,_ more visceral and inescapable.

He thrusts sharply, and again, and faster, until it's a frenetic pace almost too uncoordinated to be considered as such, until John is making a keening noise high in the back of his throat, shuddering uncontrollably, clenching so tight Sherlock can only groan into John's collarbone in response. It's nearly too much, Sherlock can tell, when John starts gasping out "Jesus, _Jesus_ ," and the mindless plea goes straight to Sherlock's groin. He bangs John against the wall harder than he intends and there, _there_ is the noise Sherlock's been looking for, the open mouth yell that descends into a wordless groan. He'd grin in triumph he weren't so busy sucking on John's neck; instead he just does it again.

The second time Sherlock bangs him up against the wall John comes, barely gets his hand round his cock before he's spilling everywhere. His back arches of its own accord and he loses control of himself, pleasure ecstatic and beautiful and lighting him up everywhere. The pressure of Sherlock in his arse only makes everything so much better, makes his muscles contract and his body sing. He strokes himself through the end of it, shuddering, and when he opens his eyes Sherlock is staring at him like he's never seen him before.

Sherlock could come right then, watching John grab himself, feeling the pressure around his cock somehow become tighter. John gasps out orders, "Come inside me, I want you to come inside me,” and Sherlock decides that he may comply, but this particular time it will be on his terms. He thrusts into John two, three, four more times -- hits John against the wall, feels like he's going to explode every time John yells hoarsely, his entire body overstimulated and strung tight, shaking as he feels too much too soon. The last time Sherlock does it John makes a sound like he's dying and Sherlock feels like he might follow, his entire body shaking as he comes into John, who presses their mouths together and holds on tight.

Sherlock's not sure how, but when he comes back to himself he realizes they've managed to somehow fall to the floor. 

"Blimey," John croaks into Sherlock's skin, mouthing at the bitten red fullness of Sherlock’s lower lip, sucking at it as they come down from the frantic pound of sex. The floor is startlingly cold, and John's sure there's a shoe under his back, and for heaven's sake he's still got his bloody shirt on, half the buttons popped off when Sherlock had shoved it up to bite his nipples. Sherlock starts to soften inside him and John reaches underneath, thumbs along that length and presses it right back into himself, keeping him tucked in where he ought to always be. Sherlock startles at it, hypersensitive, and John laughs into his mouth, kissing him. "You're such a rotten tosser, I can't believe you. What was that even about?"

"Do you need it spelled out?" Sherlock replies, but it has none of the heat that would make it believably disparaging. This might possibly have to do with the way John had pressed Sherlock back inside him, and the rucked up look of him, his shirt and his hair, his eyes still wild around the edges, his mouth red and wet. 

"Well, I think I got the basics," John answers, mouth tilted toward a smile, "but I might have missed a few of the finer details."

Sherlock huffs and lays back onto the floor, hands behind his head. John rolls up with him, sitting on his cock, making little unconscious movements that send small sparks into Sherlock's spine. "No mystery to solve here, I'm afraid."

Sherlock bends his knees and John leans back against them, seemingly at perfect ease lying spitted on Sherlock's cock. "Somehow, I don't quite believe you."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow dismissively. "Not my problem." John stretches his legs out, his left foot flexing. He's shrinking again, right in front of Sherlock, the look in his eyes vulnerable and open and so bloody fucking trusting. _I love you_ , Sherlock thinks, surprised when the thought comes seemingly right out of the blue. One of these days he'll say so without waiting for near death or John getting to implosive levels of anger to encourage it. 

"You like that people heard me yelling like a banshee," John says, smiles before he can stop himself at the flash that crosses, lightning quick, over Sherlock's face. "That's it, isn't it? You wanted them to hear me down in the shop, didn't you?" He laughs, can't help it, leaning down to kiss Sherlock messy and comfortable. He's hard enough now that he doesn't slip out of John again, and John grins against his mouth, utterly unrepentant. 

He rolls his hips just slightly and sits up so he can reach his cock. He loves the way Sherlock's mouth goes slack whenever he strokes himself, as if he couldn't believe John ever touched himself, as if the sight was something stunning and beautiful. He's hardening, sensitive when Sherlock reaches down to thumb his balls gently. This only ever happens when it’s the two of them, as if their bodies forget they’re well into middle age. His balls ache, and the head of his cock is tingling – unpleasantly, but as he warms himself back up the tingle changes to an _ache_ , and he moans low in his throat, tipping his head back and reaching up to touch a nipple, gone hard and tight and sensitive.

"Pleased, are we?" Sherlock asks, dry as dust, his hips twitching up of their own accord. John's hole is sore, and when he reaches back he finds it hot to the touch where it's stretched, obscene, around Sherlock's cock. John groans in his throat, rocks slow and careful. 

John is grinning, and brilliant, and it rips something inside Sherlock to look at him. Sherlock moves his hands and puts his palms on the floor to leverage himself up, thrusting in to John, who breaks off a low groan. He’s so hot where Sherlock is inside him, his fingers following John’s to skim along the edge of his hole. 

He wants to move John’s hand and stroke him but finds he’s more interested in watching, his attention arrested with something like wonder as the world contracts sharply inwards. They’re nearly chest to chest, the angle different than before, the feeling a slow burn of pleasure. “I want to watch you, next time,” he murmurs, tilting his head to lick his way into John’s mouth.

John opens his mouth to the caress, lets Sherlock in to lick and suck and explore. There is a thing he does where he nibbles at the corner of John’s lower lip, sucking it into his mouth, that drives John nearly to distraction. It always turns into a deep kiss because John can’t help himself, couldn’t _hope_ to. So sensual, Sherlock, that mind running a million miles a minute except, inexplicably, when they’re having sex, and then that attention is one hundred percent on John. It’s headier than the sex, and the sex is _spectacular._

“I want you to watch me,” John answers, breathless, and hooks his leg beneath Sherlock’s knee, shoves off with his good hand, and rolls them over the carpet. There’s a crash somewhere behind them, the sound of books tumbling, and he shoves a pair of trousers away, a shoe out of his face. Sherlock looks startled over him, eyes so warm, and John smiles back, thumbs his chin. “But if you think I’m going to do all the work, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“You do realize I just held you up against that wall three feet behind you?” Sherlock responds, entertained by John’s change of plans.

John hums, amused. “As I see it, the wall did most of the work.” He flexes his hips up, twines one leg up over Sherlock’s lower back. “Maybe I like watching you sweat.” He drags one fingertip gently through the sweat on Sherlock’s temple. “You strain so beautifully.”

Sherlock tries for cool disdain, has the eyebrow raised perfectly, but the look in John's eyes has him licking his lips, and the effect is ruined. "Strain?" he asks, like this is dangerous, because in all the important ways it is. John looks unrepentant, and Sherlock’s smile feels distinctly predatory. He pulls back, until he's almost entirely out, and stops, forces himself still. John writhes under him, soaks his name in frustration. “ _Sherlock_.”

Sherlock waits until John looks fed up and then all but collapses on him, pins him down and covers him, his prick sliding all the way in at the same time. The effect makes John's eyes slide shut, makes his hands flutter at Sherlock's sides mindlessly. John is wet and hot and hard, and Sherlock feels ravenous, the starved man at the feast, greedy for as much as John will give him. 

He fucks like an adrenaline junkie. John doesn’t know when they’ll ever have sweet, slow sex, wonders if it’s even written in their relationship somewhere, or if they’re slated to have _this_ for the rest of their time together. John’s never had this, never, always made love like a gentleman, even when he was with men. It’s never been like this, pleasure building and building past all he’s ever known, blowing through every last experience he’s ever had, until it’s all he can think about, animal gratification on the heels of bright, brilliant love, burning away everything in its path. 

Sherlock makes love with his entire _body_ , fingers and feet and elbows and eyes, pushing John higher and higher until he can’t hear the sounds he’s making, until everything is cleared out of his mind with a sweep and all John can think about is _Sherlock, Sherlock please._

He reaches down, mindless, face to the side as Sherlock bites and sucks his neck, but he doesn’t quite reach -- Sherlock snatches his wrist away, pins it ever so carefully above his head. He slows, snapping his hips in slow, even thrusts, somehow deeper than before, and John bites his tongue to keep the cries in. “I wonder,” Sherlock says, breathless and deep and so young, powerfully so, enough to make John feel young too. “Could you?”

He looks thoughtful, the expression he gets when he’s experimenting on something new and exciting, and John feels pinned by it, as surely as his hand is caught in Sherlock’s grip. “Could I what?” he asks.

“Come.” He rolls his hips forward.

The implication startles him, and he says, “No!” even as he wonders. He’s never tried, he doesn’t think -- but then again, he also didn’t think anyone would ever hold him up and fuck him into a wall. “Sherlock,” he begs, reaches between his legs with his right hand. It doesn’t work, never has, and Sherlock knows it, lets him stroke himself once, twice, before pinning that hand, too.

John says no but looks considering, and completely aroused, and that is what ultimately prompts Sherlock's next move. "Perhaps you just need the proper motivation,” he answers, and grins at the look on John's face.

Pulling out of John makes him groan and John wince, frustrated and bewildered. "What the hell, Sherlock?" he asks, but the lube is too far away and Sherlock knows it'll be worth it, even if John doesn't yet. He snatches the tube from it's precarious position on John's chair and turns back to John, who is still laying on the floor, watching Sherlock's arse with equal parts amusement and undisguised lust. 

"Keep your eyes there," Sherlock orders him, "unless you want to try to do this without looking."

"What exactly is 'this'?" John asks, but Sherlock straddles John, grabs his hands and pulls him up, until their positions are reversed, until John's eyes widen and his blood runs due south and Sherlock grins, completely self-satisfied, as he squeezes the lube onto John's fingers. 

John moans like he’s _dying_ , because he’s startlingly empty, and Sherlock slicking his fingers with lube is the hottest thing he’s ever seen. He gives Sherlock a push backwards, sending him sprawling by his favorite chair, and they knock over the tea table and send bills and other papers flying, but John can’t be arsed to care when he finally shoulders Sherlock’s legs apart. They’ve never done this, never flipped around in the middle of sex, but the pulsing in his cock tells him that this is a very good idea indeed, that the ache in his arse will be the best thing in the world when combined with Sherlock’s beautiful, grasping hole, tight around John’s cock.

He knocks Sherlock’s knees up, pushes them high and wide, and holds him just like that so he can lean down and lick, obscene, around Sherlock’s hole.

Sherlock is going to have a bruise on his lower back from the corner of the table, and probably one on his leg from a falling book as well. He’ll consider it an even trade though, because John's going to have a pair on his upper arms from where Sherlock is gripping them, white knuckled, while John does something with his tongue that almost fucking kills him. 

There are words, coherent ones even, somewhere in his head, but he can't find them, can't be bothered to sort them all out. His cock is so hard it hurts, his sac has long since gone tight. John is lapping around, poking _in_ , his thumb accidentally slipping across now and again as he holds Sherlock open, and in the back of his mind Sherlock is well aware he sounds like he's being murdered, but he can't seem to care.

His brain rouses itself only long enough to alert him that he's got less than a minute before he's finished, and he makes a concerted effort to communicate as much, but what comes out are desperate pleas. All of it is in a tone that he's _never_ used before, not when play-acting, certainly never genuinely, but here it is, pride-less and urgent, just, "Now now, John, get in me John fuck _fuck_ now--" over and over again. And John keeps going anyway, the bloody bastard, until Sherlock forces his hands off John's shoulders and instead yanks sharply on his hair.

“The sounds you make,” John gasps, pushing two fingers into Sherlock’s slick little hole. He ducks his head down to lick Sherlock’s nipples, bite at them as Sherlock’s hips vibrate on John’s fingers. “Do you even hear yourself? Jesus Sherlock, _Jesus Christ_. I’ll bet I could get you to come just eating you out. Is that what you’d like? My tongue in your arse, making you come?” He leans back down, licks along the taut stretch of Sherlock’s hole spread around John’s fingers, just to listen to the sounds he makes, utterly ecstatic at the response. “I’d do it love, tucked down between your legs.” 

He pushes up to his knees between Sherlock’s legs, slicks himself fast, then holds Sherlock open with his thumb, nudges his cock right _there_ , and pushes in only a bit, watching that little hole dilate and grasp for him, relaxed and open and wanting. He does it again, and again, dipping in slowly and pulling back out, a _tease_ , until Sherlock makes a sound just short of a scream and then he pushes all the way in, hard and deep. Sherlock jolts and keens and John lets go of his legs, hooks them over his elbows and pushes in deeper, as deep as he can, until he’s bottomed out, against the curve of Sherlock’s backside.

Sherlock thumps a fist hard against the floor, it’s too close, so close, and he is nothing but desperate and wanton. He clenches tight around John, deliberate, to hear John's groan, to feel him start to move. Sherlock lifts his hips and drops them again, fucking himself on John’s cock, well past coherency, and this isn't going to last, it could never last, no one could survive this for long.

John grasps hold of Sherlock’s thighs and uses it as leverage to fuck the hell out of him. The pleasure had banked, but as soon as John starts to thrust it ignites again, inferno hot. Sherlock is _gorgeous_ underneath him, pale and long with all that beautiful dark hair, his cock purple and his cheeks pink, sweating and gasping and shameless in his need. 

He can’t help it, even if it breaks his rhythm -- John braces himself and leans down to kiss him, match his tongue to their rhythm until they’re just panting for air, until the only sound in all of Baker Street is the slap-on-slap of sex. They’re going to hurt tomorrow, it’s going to be terrible, the both of them languishing in bed, strained and sore and exhausted, and John moans wildly, shifts their positions until he can bury his face in Sherlock’s throat, hips moving well past his control. He’s going to come, he’s almost there, and he reaches down between them, grasps Sherlock, slick with precome, and strokes hard and fast just like Sherlock likes.

John wraps his hand around Sherlock and that's all it takes. Sherlock hollers, goes taut, clenches down around John and spills himself all over John's hand, over his own stomach. He shudders over and over again, feels it in his toes, down to his fingertips, his hands somehow back on John's arms, leaving fingermarks that will darken into bruises. It feels like forever before he can breathe again, a long shuddered exhale that breaks off as John keeps moving inside him. 

John is gasping but it's not loud enough to drown out the wet smack of their bodies coming together, and the smell of sex is covering the entire room. Sherlock shakily reaches around to grab at John's arse, to push two fingers deep, and for the second time today watches John fall apart. 

John’s back bows and he goes tight all over, blood roaring through his ears. The pleasure that had been building so low in his belly explodes and it’s bliss, letting himself go, every thrust accompanied by short, ecstatic little moans of pleasure. He rolls his hips on every pulse, in and in and in, and reaches for Sherlock’s mouth, kissing him, breathing with him, until he can’t hold himself up anymore and collapses on his chest.


End file.
